


part i: 1972 - 1979

by rosehips



Series: turn this into friendship [1]
Category: Chess - Rice/Ulvaeus/Andersson
Genre: (and also because Florence), Angst, Character Vignettes, Cold War drama, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I promise this fic won't be as much of a downer as it sounds from these tags, I was going to tag this as canon-compliant but it's Chess so really what is canon anyway, Mental Illness, Substance Abuse, at least I don't think so, because Freddie, homophobia (internalized and otherwise), more tags to come i'm sure, mostly based off the Kennedy Center version, oh so another tag:, seven-year slide from wholesome friendship to toxic trainwreck
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-28
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2019-06-17 12:02:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15460938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosehips/pseuds/rosehips
Summary: August, 1972. American ground troops pull out of Vietnam, with thousands more soldiers to follow. A communications hotline reopens between Seoul and Pyongyang for the first time since the Korean War. The Washington Post publishes the first article on what will become known as the Watergate scandal. And Florence Vassy and Freddie Trumper meet at the Marshall Chess Club in New York City.As long as he lives, it will never occur to Freddie to feel silly for thinking their meeting as epic and historic as the world-changing forces at work that month. Because they changed the world too, didn’t they? He and Florence.Vignettes across seven years of an increasingly fraught friendship, all slowly building up to the events of the play.





	1. when the passion starts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoo boy. This fic has been a long time coming and there is a long way to go. I'm excited.

August, 1972. American ground troops pull out of Vietnam, with thousands more soldiers to follow. A communications hotline reopens between Seoul and Pyongyang for the first time since the Korean War. The _Washington Post_ publishes the first article on what will become known as the Watergate scandal. And Florence Vassy and Freddie Trumper meet at the Marshall Chess Club in New York City.

As long as he lives, it will never occur to Freddie to feel silly for thinking their meeting as epic and historic as the world-changing forces at work that month. Because they changed the world too, didn’t they?

Florence might not think of it the same, but when she remembers that muggy summer it’s Freddie she sees, not headlines or news breaking across grainy television screens. Freddie Trumper hunched over a chess board in the corner of a quiet, carpeted room lined with bookshelves and mostly empty of people. Young and awfully skinny. Looking out of place in jeans and a black t-shirt, dark hair shaggy and falling over his eyes; looking like he doesn’t even notice everyone else but Florence is in a suit, and like he wouldn’t give a damn if he did.

Florence has been a member for years, but the boy must be new because she doesn’t recognize him or know his name. No one has to tell her what he is, though. It’s not hard to recognize genius from across a little room like this one.

He doesn’t glance up when she sits down across from him. All he says is “go away,” and he says it under his breath, quiet so he doesn’t break the focused silence around him.

She doesn’t move. She examines the board instead, watches the way he plays himself with slow, ruthless precision. Watches him sink down into such deep concentration she thinks maybe he’s forgotten she’s there at all, forgotten that anyone or anything exists except the game in front of him.

He moves his white bishop to C4. “If you’re not going to play me,” the boy says, looking up at last, “then _go away_.” His eyes are a dark brown-green, from what Florence can see through his flopped-down hair.

She turns her gaze down to the array on the board again, and after a moment moves a black knight from E4 to C3. The corner of his mouth twitches towards a tiny smile, and she knows she’s surprised him.

He pushes his second bishop to C5, next to the first, gunning for her queen.

Florence moves a rook to F8. “Check,” she says softly.

He doesn’t even blink, just moves his king to safety in F1. Her queen is still under attack, and for a few minutes she focuses on that, trying to work it out, until she decides to look elsewhere.

After a few minutes more, she moves her bishop from G4 to E6.

The boy looks up, and the most wonderful grin spreads across his face. He moves one of his bishops to take her sacrificed queen, but she can tell from his face that he knows she has him beat.

The fact that it makes him happy makes her like him very much.

An hour later, she moves her surviving rook to C2, and looks at him expectantly.

“Checkmate,” the boy says, and gently knocks his own king to its side. When he meets her eyes it’s with a look close to awe. Florence feels her breath catch in her throat, and she doesn’t even mind. “Can I take you to dinner?” he asks.

As soon as he says it she notices she’s famished. “Yes.”

They both stand and stretch muscles sore from sitting in tense focus for so long. “Oh,” she says as he leans to one side, then the other, with his hands on his hips. “I’m Florence Vassy.”

He gives her another grin as he shakes her extended hand. “Freddie Trumper.”

_Oh._

U.S. Chess Champion at age 13 Freddie Trumper. Disappeared mysteriously the next year and came back at 19 sharper than ever Freddie Trumper. Hasn’t lost any major match since 1968 Freddie Trumper. Controversial, temperamental, bound-for-glory Grandmaster Frederick Trumper.

And Florence just beat him.

He’s watching her reaction and looks awfully smug about it.

“Well,” she says, shaking herself out of a haze she simply will _not_ think of as starstruck. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Freddie.”

 

Turns out being treated to dinner by Freddie Trumper means walking through Washington Square Park with hot dogs from a street stand.

“You’re not from New York,” he comments as they pass the arch.

“I’m from Amherst.” Florence isn’t one for hot dogs, but this one is awfully good. She must have been even hungrier than she thought.

“What’s your accent, then?” Freddie demands. She can tell from his tone that he’s not _trying_ to be rude.

“Hungarian and English,” she answers after a moment. “I was born in Hungary and lived there until I was seven. My — my parents are from Greenwich, but they brought me to Amherst.”

“Greenwich to Greenwich,” he says, gesturing to the Village around them. He looks tickled by the coincidence, and doesn’t seem to have noticed her stumbling over calling her foster parents just her parents. “I’m from Brooklyn,” he tells her proudly. “Born and raised.” He takes a bite of his hot dog. “What’s Hungary like?” he asks through a mouthful.

“I don’t really remember,” she says honestly.

“That’s probably a good thing,” Freddie says with confidence. “It’s all commies over there, no place to raise a child.”

Florence refuses to think about that. “You don’t look like you know a thing about raising children,” she laughs instead, and he looks at her in surprise again but smiles. “Anyway, where did you learn to play chess like that?”

He smirks. “Taught myself. You?”

She can tell he’s watching her closely despite the offhand way he’d asked. After all, she just beat him. She’s surprised he’s waited this long to try to figure out exactly _how._

“Well, my father taught me when I was younger,” she says. “But I didn’t play for a while after coming to the States.” _Because he didn’t come with me. Because he got carted away by the Communists you so famously hate._ “I got back into it in college,” she continues. “There was a chess club there with some awfully good players, and I learned a lot from them.”

“Anyone I’ve played?” he asks. It should irk her that he assumes she’s paid close enough attention to his career that she’d know the answer, except he’s right.

“Yes, actually. Alfred Harvey, you beat him a few years ago.”

“Harvey.” Freddie wrinkles his nose. “He was no good.”

“We thought he was pretty good at Harvard,” she says dryly. “But I beat him too, nine times out of ten. He wasn’t very nice about it. I learned from playing him, though.”

“And what do they think of women chess players at Harvard?” Freddie asks.

“Not much.” She hopes he feels otherwise -- thinks he probably does, given that smile when she beat him, but she’s not certain.

“Most of them are no good,” he says with a shrug. “They don’t have the mind for it, doesn’t come natural to them. You’re different,” he adds, as if bestowing a great honor upon her. “I can tell.”

“Hmm.” She finishes her hot dog. “Anyway, I moved here after graduating, and I became a member at the club in ‘68. Kept playing, got better. I’ve never seen you there before.” And she’s looked.

“I don’t like to go during the day,” Freddie says, waving his hot dog in a dismissive gesture. “They let me stay past closing, that’s what I like. It’s quiet.”

He does need his games to be very quiet, she remembers reading that somewhere.

“Don’t you ever go to practice against anyone but yourself?” she asks.

“If I hear anyone’s any good I’ll invite them to play me,” Freddie says. He eyes her. “I’ve never heard of you.”

Florence raises an eyebrow. “Like I said, people don’t think much of women chess players. I’m not surprised no one talks about how well I play. I’m sure they say other things.” She’s not going to tell him about the insults and propositions she’s gotten from male players over the years, even fellow members at the club, but she’s sure he gets the idea.

“They’re idiots,” he says, and tosses his half-eaten hot dog at a trash can as they pass it by. It falls short and a little terrier tugs at its leash trying to get at the food, yowling a protest when its scolding owner yanks it away.

“I’m glad you think so,” Florence tells him.

“I want to play you again,” he says, wiping his fingers on his dark-wash jeans. “You free tomorrow?”

She bites her lip. “I have work.”

Freddie stares at her like she’s grown a second head. “Skip.”

Florence laughs. “I can’t skip work as if it’s a class I don’t like,” she tells him. “I like my job, I don’t want to lose it. But how about the next day?”

“What day is that?” he asks with a frown.

“Saturday.” _Does he not keep track of the days of the week?_

“Okay,” he says. “Come by the club at eight.”

She does. He’s sharper when it’s quiet and he’s not been caught by surprise, of course, and although she puts up a good defense he beats her decisively. Florence is worried he might try to make a different kind of move on her after the game — it’s late, they’re alone — but he doesn’t. Just looks pleased with himself and asks her to play him again next Saturday.

They go on like this for a few weeks, then start playing on Wednesdays too, earlier in the evening so Florence won’t be exhausted at work the next day. They’re evenly matched at first, but as he learns from her he starts winning more and more. She still catches him in mistakes, though, and one night he makes one so shockingly obvious she can’t help but point it out to him.

Freddie stares at the board with his mouth slightly open, then looks up at her. “I want you to be my trainer,” he says.

Florence sits back in her chair. They’re alone in the main room and it’s quiet except for the muffled clinks and murmurs of a few men eating in the dining area.

“And what would that entail?” she asks, wanting to say yes already but cautious all the same.

“I don’t know, just _train_ me,” he says impatiently. “Point out my mistakes like that instead of trying to beat me. Help me learn about other Grandmasters and their strategies. Research all the old great matches and go through them with me play by play. Come with me to matches. That kind of thing.”

Florence likes the idea. The challenge, the thrill of a new project, of digging deep into something and learning everything about it. “It” being chess, but maybe Freddie a little bit too. She wasn’t lying when she told Freddie she likes her job, but translating scholarly articles for Columbia doesn’t allow for much creativity. She’s been longing for variation for a while now, and here it is.

“I’d need you to pay me a stipend,” she tells him.

“Done,” he says happily, slapping the table. He names a rate and it’s reasonable — even generous. Florence is surprised that he’s not making her negotiate until she realizes he simply doesn’t want to waste his time bothering with all that. Better to be fast and fair. Well, she won’t argue with that. Especially not when he looks absolutely thrilled when she agrees.

They stand to shake on it, and impulsively he pulls her into a hug instead. “This is gonna be really good, Florence,” he tells her excitedly after stepping back. His eyes are as bright as she’s ever seen them. “We’re gonna crush ‘em all.”

She’s smiling too until she turns to get her bag and sees that one of the men having dinner is standing in the doorway. He raises an eyebrow at her and she knows he’d seen them hug, knows exactly what he thinks it meant. Florence gives him a frown, a tiny shake of her head; he spreads his hands in an “I don’t know” sort of gesture and heads back into the dining room.

Florence resolves not to care about the rumors he’s about to start. They’re ridiculous, anyway. She’s known Freddie for a while now and not once has he looked at her like that. In fact, she doesn’t think she’s ever seen him look at _any_ woman like that, let alone express interest; she’s pretty sure he doesn’t think about sex at all. She certainly doesn’t think about sex with him.

Maybe that’s why it takes her so long to realize she loves him.

She didn’t know, really, that women could love men they didn’t want to sleep with. She hardly even believed that women and men could even just be good friends until she met Freddie. But that’s what they are: they spend hours and hours together every week, playing chess but doing other things too. Saturdays become Freddie days for her, Florence days for him. They’ll get a late breakfast together and he’ll demand every time that she order for him, won’t even look at the menu, and it’s sort of annoying but mostly just silly and sweet.

Which is Freddie in a nutshell, actually. He can be a pain, especially when he’s tired or hungry, but he’s easy to please, almost like he’s never had a real friend before and looks at each little kindness from her with wonder.

And he’s eager to please _her,_ too. Between rent, travel, and the way he orders or eats out but never cooks, Freddie hasn’t much spare income despite winning the pot at every match he plays, but he pays for her meals more often than not — and on her 27th birthday he utterly shocks her with a first edition of Joyce’s _Ulysses._

“Freddie,” she gasps, lifting the book reverently from its brown paper wrapping. _This must have cost a fortune._ “Where did you get this?”

“Book dealer,” he says with a smirk and a shrug, as if it’s no big deal except he totally knows it is and he’s _very_ proud of himself. “You said it was one of your favorites when you dragged me to that bookstore you like, what’s-it-called, Argo?”

“Argosy.” She turns the book over in her hands, brushing her fingers down its binding. Joyce’s publisher only printed a thousand copies of the first edition. She puts it down gently, scared to touch it any more than she already has. _Argosy_ , she thinks. That must have been five months ago. He’s been saving up all the time, hunting it down. Must have had to hound the dealer and the seller relentlessly to get them to give it up. All for her.

“Freddie…” She wipes quickly at her eyes. “ _Thank_ you, darling.”

He glows at her words, so damn happy to see her happy, and that’s when she realizes she loves him.

Even if they’d been in public instead of her little living room she wouldn’t have hesitated: she sets the book carefully aside and embraces him.

So he overspends, yes, but he does it so kindly (except for the way he never tips waiters or cabbies, and she has to do it behind his back). So he snaps at her sometimes, he can be a brat, but he’s far from spoiled and although he doesn’t seem to be able to form the words “I’m sorry” he always makes it up to her. So he’s brash, a jerk to his competitors; so he courts the cameras a little too much; but he’s brilliant and funny and sweet. So when he’s in a bad mood he brings her down with his brooding, but when he’s happy it’s impossible to not be happy around him too.

All that talk of mean, angry Freddie Trumper is just talk, she decides.

One Wednesday they decide to play against each other like they used to, as competitors, without her making suggestions or pointing out traps or mistakes. “No mercy,” she warns him, wagging her finger, and Freddie gives her a good-natured scoff.

He wins the first round, but she wins the second so thoroughly he applauds her. “You know, I think I love you,” Freddie grins as he claps, and Florence is so happy about it she laughs out loud.

Years later it’ll happen again: _I love you,_ the lonely man will say, and to his surprise and hers he will turn out to be right, and for a long time it’ll be oh so good, and then it will end, sudden and terrible and inevitable. Florence doesn’t know, of course, on this muggy August day, that not once but twice will she be ruined in this particular way. That the boy in front of her now will lead her to the man she’ll leave him for. That _that_ man will lead her to her still-living, quickly dying father before leaving her forever.

There’s a lot Florence doesn’t know yet. That’s why she’s so happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is based on the timeline of the Kennedy Center production, which sets Merano in 1979. Based on Florence’s line about how she’s “taken shit for seven years,” that means they met in ‘72. I chose August because that’s when the Fischer-Spassky “Match of the Century” ended in reality. The game Florence and Freddie play is pulled move-for-move from the famous brilliancy match Fischer won against Grandmaster Donald Byrne when he was 13. Florence, like Fischer, is playing black and wins. 
> 
> Also for reference: I wanted Florence and Freddie to be younger than in the KC version. I have her turning 26 in this chapter, making her 10 when she fled Budapest and 33 in Merano. Freddie is a year younger.
> 
> ok now let me know what you think :}


	2. a model of decorum and tranquility

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m back!! cw for (unintentional) disordered eating in this chapter.

_February - April, 1973_

 

Freddie used to think he knew what it felt like to be in love. Other people would talk about love, and he _really_ thought he knew what they meant.

All thoughts stray back to the beloved: _check._

Hunger, exhaustion, the petty inconveniences of life all forgotten when one is with the beloved: _check._

Awe and adoration paired with an obsessive desire to learn everything about the beloved, to know the beloved more deeply than the beloved has ever been known, more deeply than one has ever known anything: _check._

It never occurred to him that he might be wrong just because _his_ beloved was a board game rather than a person.

On the contrary, he suspected he loved chess more than most of the men he knew loved their wives.

He’s probably still right about that latter part, Freddie thinks, but the rest of it?

Florence Vassy has proved him wrong, and he loves her all the more for it.

He can’t get enough of her. He suspects she knows that he always has one eye on her when they’re in the same room, one ear perked for her footstep or her voice when she’s out of sight. He doesn’t mind if she does notice, because she smiles whenever she catches him at it. After a certain point he gives up on being subtle.

How can he help it? She fascinates him. She knows _everything._ She’s read every book he’s ever heard of and a thousand he hasn’t. She went to _Harvard._ She spends the entirety of her Sunday afternoons reading every page of the _Times_ front to back. She speaks English, Hungarian, French, Russian, and German. Even her name is sophisticated, elegant, cosmopolitan. He loves to say it: _Florence, Florence._ She hums off-key when she cuts his hair for him. She’s _damn_ good at chess. She’s patient with him, calls him darling, smiles when he calls her baby. She laughs at his jokes, she likes it when he acts like a brat just to entertain her.

Inexplicably, wonderfully, impossibly, she loves him back. She even tells him so.

For a little while he toys with the idea of proposing to her, except they should probably kiss first, and more, and he doesn’t want to do that. He doesn’t know why he doesn’t want to; she’s beautiful.

(He does know why. But he won’t let himself think about it.)

Point is, he never wants her to leave. His days are so much better now that she’s part of every one of them.

This is how Freddie’s average day used to go: wake up at ten on a good day, but often closer to noon or one or even later. Lay in bed for an hour or so until the nervous energy in him builds strong enough to force him into movement. If he’s hungry, he’ll eat whatever’s lying around: not-too-stale bread and cheese, maybe some fruit, cornflakes with milk if it’s not expired. Carrots and ranch dressing. Never any meat because he gets nervous about cooking it too rare and poisoning himself. If he’s not hungry, he’ll skip that part and go straight to the chessboard. He’ll spend hours there, stay until it starts to get dark, and then he walks to the club and plays there til he’s exhausted. Then a cab home, or he’ll sleep in a room at the club.

He’ll go days without speaking more than two words aloud to another person. Sometimes he forgets to eat. But he takes his pills, he keeps his apartment clean enough that that there are no roaches or rats, only a few unavoidable mice in the winter. He wins every match. So he figures he’s doing pretty well.

Once Florence comes along, Freddie realizes just how bad he was at taking care of himself on his own. So in February, when her lease is up, he asks her to move in.

To his utter surprise, she says yes. She keeps real food in the fridge, meat and fish and vegetables and fresh milk and everything. She actually _likes_ to cook, and he finds that when he eats regular, healthy meals he has much more energy. It’s good for his game — he can focus longer, see clearer — and for his mood. He rediscovers his love for the ritual of laundry and the dependable satisfaction of washing the dishes by hand. He makes his bed every morning like his mother taught him (neat corners, fluffed pillows). He even toys with the idea of getting a job.

The routines soothe him further, and Freddie is grateful because he wants to be good for Florence. He’d been worried, when she agreed to move in, that he’d scare her away. But she seems to still be delighted by him, even when he suspects he’s being a pest.

He starts waking up early so he can lounge on the foot of her bed and watch her get ready for work. _Her_ routine soothes him too: dressed in an elegant, wide-collared dress, she brushes out her long, long hair til it shimmers, then pins it up. Next she does her makeup, and he teases her about how her mouth always falls open as she applies her mascara. Last comes the jewelry, simple but elegant like everything about her, Freddie thinks. She favors silver and he considers buying her sterling earrings for her next birthday, or just because.

He hides his pills from her. And his sickness.

Freddie feels guilty about this, though he can’t put his finger on why. He’s protecting her by concealing it, isn’t he? He’s certainly protecting himself. He knows Florence can see he’s a little… _off,_ a little not like anyone else, but she seems to have chalked that up to the eccentricity of a genius ( _because I_ am _a genius,_ he thinks) and he needs to keep it that way.

By the time April rolls around and she still doesn’t know, Freddie figures he can keep this act up forever. He’ll be a model of tranquility. He’ll keep winning matches, and doing laundry and washing dishes and eating three meals a day. He’ll keep buying her gifts and sharing his cigarettes. He’ll keep getting up early and going outside every day; he’ll keep charming her. He’ll keep _her._ She’ll let him. They’ll be happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to [valancysnaith](https://archiveofourown.org/users/valancysnaith/pseuds/valancysnaith) and Rís for helping me get back in the _Chess_ mindset. The chapters should come a lot quicker from now on!


	3. look, here’s a piece some idiot’s written on you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is specifically inspired by the Kennedy Center’s version of “Commie Newspapers,” which contains the following exchange --
> 
> Florence: Why do you always have to attack [Anatoly] for being a communist? It makes you look like an asshole.
> 
> Freddie: Because I am an asshole. It’s my pop culture signature.

_July, 1973_

 

The first time Freddie’s name appears in the _New York Times_ since 1961, it’s tucked away in the back page of the Sunday sports section. The “article” is really just a blurb, but Florence reads it aloud with delighted surprise:

_THIS WEEK IN CHESS_

_Former U.S. Champion Frederick Trumper, who withdrew from public life at age 14 after his famous 1960 triumph, is back on the chess circuit and on the rise. Yesterday, Mr. Trumper defeated English FIDE Master Horace Crawford, who was favored to win. Expert analyst Rolf Altherr states that the reclusive Mr. Trumper, known as a hothead in the chess world, is “a player to watch.”_

_Mr. Trumper’s next match is in October, when he will compete with Russian Grandmaster Mikhail Koblents. The game, much anticipated by chess enthusiasts and political analysts, will take place in London._

“Known as a hothead in the chess world?!” Freddie repeats around a mouthful of toast. “That’s not fair.”

Florence lowers the paper to give him a sardonic look. “It’s practically your pop culture signature, darling.” She considers this. “Actually, maybe that’s not so bad.” She folds the paper neatly and places it on the table.

Freddie is incredulous, then gleeful. “You think me being a hothead is good?”

“I think you having a higher profile is good,” she corrects him. “Any serious chess player knows who you are, Freddie, but the man on the street couldn’t put a name to your face if you paid him.”

“Thanks,” he says flatly.

“I’m only saying what’s true,” Florence insists. “Listen, the more famous you are, the more matches you’ll get. And the money will be better too.” She’s not ashamed to point that out: they both know they could use more cash. Especially because the temp positions Freddie manages to finagle are few and far between.

Freddie perks up at her statement. “How do you mean?”

“You could get invited to speak at events, that type of thing,” she explains.

“You think people would want me to come to _events_?” His brow furrows with doubt.

Florence cocks her head. “Didn’t they when you were younger?”

“Yeah, but I was a prodigy back then. Now I’m just a genius.”

She gives him a playful swat with the newspaper. “Well, a genius with a big personality gets interviews and invitations.”

A grin unfurls slowly across his face. “I like the sound of that.”

“Not _too_ big of a personality, though,” she warns. “ _Hothead_ is a bit much. Let’s take it down a notch to… I don’t know, _eccentric._ Maybe _opinionated._ ”

“How about _rebel_?” Freddie suggests innocently.

“And what are you rebelling against, going to bed at a decent hour?”

“Ha ha. I’m rebelling against the governments that treat chess players like fucking pawns for their own games, Florence.” He’s starting to rile himself up. “Against our idiot criminal so-called _president_ who’s been _spying_ on us all, that paranoid son-of-a-bitch, he —”

“Yes, alright, I get it,” Florence says hurriedly. She’s heard more than enough of his Nixon rants — or rather, his Nixon _rant,_ the same one over and over — since the Watergate hearings began in May. “But _eccentric_ is a better reputation, Freddie. We don’t want you to be so controversial that your personality overshadows your skill at the game.”

“That’s true,” he concedes. “But what about you?”

She blinks. “What about me?”

He polishes off his toast, then licks his finger and picks up the crumbs with it. “What’s your reputation gonna be?” he asks.

Florence makes a face. “I don’t know that I want to be in the papers. I certainly don’t _need_ to be.”

Freddie deposits the crumbs into his mouth, then examines his fingernail thoughtfully. “You’re afraid people will think we’re sleeping together.”

She’s shocked to realize he’s right. “Well… yes, I suppose. I don’t want to be known as someone’s mistress.”

“I’m not married.”

“Well, someone’s _girlfriend_ then.”

He flashes a charming smile. “Not even mine?”

Florence shifts in her chair. This is the first time they’ve ever come close to discussing, let alone defining, their rather unconventional relationship. She’s not sure she wants to have the conversation.

“I don’t think either of us wants that,” she hedges.

To her relief, Freddie simply gives a careless shrug and swipes up some more crumbs. “Well, we’ll call you my second, then. Instead of just trainer or assistant.”

Florence feels a rush of warmth for him. “I like the sound of that very much,” she nods. “Anyway.” She gets up, fetches a pair of scissors, and begins to carefully cut the little article from the _Times_. “We should frame this.”

Freddie beams.

They end up just sticking it to the fridge. Florence keeps meaning to pick up a frame small enough, but never quite has the time to get around to it. So it stays there, pinned by one magnet at first and then four, one on each corner, as it ages and curls.


	4. I don’t quit, and I don’t lose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from a line Freddie says before “Press Conference” in the KC version.

_October, 1973_

 

Whenever Freddie gets upset, Florence takes him out for something sugary.

He really is like a little boy sometimes. She feels like his mother, packing candy bars whenever they travel so she can feed him if he goes all grouchy — which he inevitably does, when his routines gets thrown off — but at least it works.

Florence is packing a little extra today, because this time they’re traveling to the Olympia in London so Freddie can play Mikhail Koblents, who he’s already lost to twice. He’ll never admit it, but he’s scared. Which puts him in a foul mood. Which she doesn’t want to deal with _ever,_ but especially not when she’s going to be in England for the first time since she was twelve and she’s not sure how to feel about it.

So: extra candy bars. Maybe a few for herself, too.

 

Freddie loses to Koblents again, and as Florence watches him try valiantly not to crumple before the press she’s pretty sure a sugar rush isn’t going to fix this one.

“Mr. Trumper, what does it mean for American chess that the former U.S. champion can’t beat Russia’s best player?” a BBC reporter asks, pen poised and camera rolling.

“It means I’m not a goddamn Soviet machine,” Freddie snaps. He gives a nasty sidelong look to Koblents, whose serene smile doesn’t even twitch. “But machines break down, it’s only a matter of time.”

“So you intend to play Mr. Koblents again, then?” follows up the BBC man.

“Yes, and next time I’m going to win. You can bet your precious pound on that.” Anyone can see it’s a hollow boast.

Freddie only looks more upset when the reporters turn their focus to Koblents, the real star of the show. His leg bounces, his fingers drum, he’s as restless and nervy now as he was still and focused at the board. The press conference ends before he deteriorates to the point of verbally demanding attention, but he does his best to make a dramatic exit by positively flouncing off the dais with not so much as a cursory glance at Koblents, let alone a handshake.

“I’m _never_ going to beat him,” Freddie tells Florence as soon as she meets him by the exit. She’s surprised to hear despair in his voice rather than anger. “He’s too good.”

“Yes, you will,” she reassures him, though she’s not sure it’s true. “It’s only a matter of time, like you said. Time and practice. You did better against him this time than you ever have before.”

This doesn’t mollify him. “But _he’s_ still the better player. And we trained for this for _months,_ Florence. What am I good for if I can’t win?”

She presses a candy bar into his hand and he looks at it in disgust. “I’m sick of these.”

“You have to eat.”

“I’m not _hungry._ You can’t just make me feel better by giving me candy.”

Florence restrains herself from wounding his pride by pointing out that the strategy has worked to great effect plenty of times before.

“Let’s go for a walk, then,” she suggests.

Freddie’s shoulders slump. “I just want to go home,” he whispers, and his voice is so quiet and lost it goes straight the heart of her.

She rubs his shoulder. “Freddie, darling, you’re good for much more than chess.”

He shrugs her hand off. “So what? Nothing is as important as chess, so it doesn’t matter.”

She raises an eyebrow. “That’s insulting.”

“I didn’t mean _you,_ ” Freddie protests. He makes to rub his eyes before realizing he’s still clutching the candy bar. “Ugh,” he mutters, and shoves it back into her purse. When he lowers his hands from his face, his eyes are bloodshot. Florence goes from annoyed to sympathetic at the sight of it.

“A walk will be good for you,” she insists gently. “Come on, darling.”

Freddie shakes his head, a little frantic. “It’s too crowded out there, it’s too loud. I can’t.”

His breath is starting to come too fast, Florence notices with alarm. “Freddie.”

“I want to go _home,_ Florence, please — or to the hotel — I just —” He takes a deep breath with obvious effort.

He _never_ says please. This is bad.

“Alright,” she soothes. “Alright. Let’s go out the back way; there won’t be any press there. We can get a cab.”

Freddie’s breaths slow. “Okay.”

It’s a short drive back to the Holland Court Hotel, but within the span of those minutes he descends from panicky to exhausted. Even so, he asks her to stay in his room for a bit: “I won’t be able to fall asleep otherwise. It’s just jetlag,” he adds hastily when she’s too slow to conceal her worry.

_Jetlag. That's all. Of course. No wonder he’s off his game._

“I’d be happy to, darling,” Florence agrees. And, once he’s cocooned in thick blankets: “Do you want to get room service? You’re always hungry after a match, and this was a long one.” Six hours and thirteen minutes, to be exact. A long game, the longest he’s lasted against Koblents by far.

Freddie’s mouth turns down on one side. He’s embarrassed about something. “Ice cream?” he suggests tentatively.

She laughs, and he glares at her. “So you _did_ want sugar, then.”

“I _didn’t,_ ” he insists. “But I do _now._ ”

“Sure, Freddie,” Florence grins. She plucks up the phone from the little desk across from his bed, and settles into its squeaky chair. They probably shouldn’t be splurging on luxuries like room service when he didn’t win the pot, but he could use it. She could too, she’ll admit (at least to herself).

“I want chocolate,” he instructs her, as if he didn’t want chocolate every time. She requests coffee for herself, and they eat in companionable silence. He manages not to spill even a drop on the bed, and visibly restrains himself from licking the bowl. Florence crawls onto the bed when they finish, leaving the bowls stacked and balanced on the desk. She stays above the covers but cozies up next to him, and for the first time all day he smiles. A small smile, but still.

“You really will beat him next time,” she tells Freddie, feeling more certain of it than before.

He cuddles into her side. “Hmm” is all he says, but his smile is a little wider now. Wide enough that she can forget how small and scared he’d sounded earlier, back in that long empty hallway. How close to some edge she couldn’t see.

 

The press has lost interest by the next day, and the handful of reporters Florence caught lurking in the hotel lobby last night are gone. She decides to take advantage of the fact that it’s not tourist season and go for a walk through the not-too-crowded city. It’s a pleasant surprise when Freddie agrees to tag along instead of nursing his wounds in bed.

They take the Underground to Greenwich, where Florence used to live. Freddie’s not jumpy or burnt out like yesterday, so they wind their way through the Sunday market. He buys himself a crepe while Florence browses through a stand selling silk wares.

“Shoo,” she scolds Freddie when he munches on his chocolate crepe while standing dangerously close to a champagne-colored scarf. He pulls a face but steps away, content to people-watch with only a mildly brooding expression clouding his face.

Florence decides against buying anything, and Freddie falls into step beside her as they continue their stroll.

“Show me your old place,” he requests. “Where you lived with your parents.”

“Foster parents,” she corrects him.

“Right, foster parents.” Freddie polishes off the crepe and licks the chocolate off his fingers. “Or don’t you want to see it?”

“It’s not there anymore,” she answers truthfully. “They were professors, they rented from the university. The building got knocked down a few years ago. I think they built new student flats there.”

Florence’s foster mother had relayed this bit of news during a rare phone call shortly after it happened. _Such a pity,_ she’d said sadly. _It was a beautiful old house._ That was about as emotional as Florence ever heard her get.

“Do you miss it?” Freddie asks, gesturing vaguely around them.

Florence takes in the bustling market: the stands in neat rows; the Londoners — parents, grandparents, couples, children, young teens — browsing and eating; a little folk band covering some new Elton John song. She can smell chocolate from the crepe vendor, and fresh bread and tea. It’s quaint. Cheery. Lovely. Familiar, even. But it’s not home. Never was.

“I miss Budapest,” she tells him. “And I miss New York.”

Freddie ducks his head and loops his arm through hers. “We’ll be back tomorrow.”

It’s a comfort to them both.


	5. one of these days (and it won’t be long) she’ll know more about me than she should

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was masterminded by Rís! 
> 
> Heads up: the content contains allusions to child sexual abuse.

_ January, 1974 _

 

Freddie can hear mice. Even though he’s under the covers, the light clicking sound of their awful little claws reaches his ears.

He burrows deeper. It doesn’t ease the strange pulsing buzz in his brain, or the numbness of his lips. Nothing does. He’s been trying for weeks and the feeling’s only worsened. Sometimes he gets dizzy, and his brain doesn’t work as fast as it should. He’s tired most of the time but can’t sleep more than a few hours at a stretch because the nightmares have started again.

It’s the pills. He knows it must be the pills, they’re not working anymore, he should go back to the doctor. But if the pills don’t work then the doctor who gave them to him must not be very good, Freddie thinks. And even if he  _ is  _ good, what could he possibly do? Over the past decade and change Freddie’s tried everything short of a lobotomy. Lithium was the only thing that  _ really  _ helped, and now it doesn’t, and there’s nothing to be done, and he’ll be found out and it’s no use.

He throws the covers off and gets out of bed, though he’s not sure yet where he’s going to go. He knows he’s too tired to go far.

 

The house is quiet when Florence gets home at seven. Which is strange: normally Freddie, who’s slow to rise in the mornings and often groggy in the early afternoon, is wide awake by now. Usually he’d be buzzing around their little kitchen or sitting completely still in front of one of the chess boards in their even smaller living room. He hasn’t been happy about much since the temp agency fired him last month, but even though he’s moody he’s always glad to see her. Or at least relieved. 

He’s probably asleep, Florence figures, and she’s glad of it. He rarely gets eight uninterrupted hours; maybe that’s all he’s needed, and he’ll wake up in a better mood. So she tiptoes around the apartment, walking just loudly enough that the mice will keep themselves hidden. She makes herself just a sandwich for dinner rather than bother with pots and pans and washing up afterwards. After eating, she decides to check in on him.

Except he’s not in his room. 

_ He wouldn’t have gone out without leaving a note, _ she thinks. One of his little chicken-scratch, poorly spelled notes that he leaves on the fridge for her. Florence feels silly for feeling nervous: he’s a grown man. He can go out at night on his own and be safer than she would be, a lone woman in the dark.  _ He’s fine. _

Still, it’s a great relief when she flicks on her bedroom light and sees a Freddie-shaped lump under the covers. He’s heaped her extra blanket over himself too, and all she can see of him from this angle is a little tuft of hair sticking up past the comforter. It makes her smile, and another wave of relief comes: he  _ must _ be feeling better if he’s decided to make a pest of himself again. Florence is startled to realize that she’d  _ missed  _ him. Silly, pesky Freddie. 

She feels playful suddenly, the way only Freddie can make her feel, and without thinking twice she bounces onto the bed. He doesn’t stir, even when she tugs back the covers a bit and laughs at his sweet, slack-jawed sleeping face. He looks so peaceful, she thinks with fond and wicked glee, all thoughts of him needing his rest having fled her mind since she’s decided he’s probably overslept anyway.

“Freddie,” she lilts in a sing-song voice, flopping to lie beside him. “Wake  _ uuup,  _ Freddie.”

He shifts slightly. Florence taps his nose, and his mouth twitches. An almost smile. “You faker,” she laughs, “I know you’re awake.” But he keeps his eyes shut, so she sits up and gives his cheek a gentle little slap. 

“Frederick,” she says, mock-stern, and he jerks away before his eyes are even open. Jerks away so hard and sudden that she recoils too, snatching her hand back with an apology on her lips except he keeps going, stumbles out of bed and nearly falls when his leg tangles in her blanket, then catches his balance, and he’s moved fast but not fast enough to account for how his breath is coming so hard and quick. He’d been breathing so peacefully before.

“Freddie,” Florence says again, soft this time. 

He’s got his back to the wall now and he’s staring at her with wide, blank eyes. She feels a lick of fear for him. “Freddie, it’s me,” she tells him, though she doesn’t know why she feels the need. Of  _ course _ it’s her. He  _ knows _ that.

Except he didn’t, not at first, because only now can she see recognition dawn in his eyes. She makes to move towards him but he holds up his hand. He opens his mouth too but he can’t seem to speak, he’s hunched over like he just barely outran something awful, and Florence for the life of her can’t figure out why. 

“Freddie, darling, what’s wrong?” she asks, but before the question is even out of her mouth he makes a little choked sound from somewhere in his throat and stumbles from the room, still bent nearly in half.

She hesitates for a moment, hands fisted in the tangled comforter where she kneels on her bed.  _ What happened to him?  _ The bathroom door opens, then closes hard.  _ Someone did something to him.  _ The tap turns on, and under the noise of running water comes the distinct sound of retching.  _ Something terrible, when he was young.  _ She’s not sure how she knows this, but as soon as the thought comes to her she’s certain it’s true. 

Florence goes to the kitchen and pours them each a glass of water. She sits at the table and waits for a minute, then two. By this time there’s no sound except the tap running, its steady stream interrupted by little splashes. He’s washing his face. Brushing back his hair too, probably. He’s going to try to come out fresh and clean and pretend like nothing happened.

She’s still trying to decide whether or not to play along when he emerges with neat, damp hair, red eyes, and a dry face. He takes the water when she offers him the glass, but he doesn’t meet her eyes.

“Are you alright?” Florence asks. Of course the answer is  _ no,  _ but whatever Freddie actually says will tell her what he needs.

“Fine,” he tells her. Or tells his glass, as that’s what he speaks into. “You just surprised me, that’s all. It’s fine.”

She wants to touch his arm, for him to cuddle into her the way that’s become normal for them, but he’s still so tense she knows he’d only twitch away. So she keeps her distance.

“Okay,” she says instead, keeping her voice soft. “I won’t do it again.”

His lip begins to tremble, and he sets down his glass quickly. “I’m going to bed,” he says, and before she can reply he’s down the hall and shutting his door.

 

Even burrowed under his covers, Freddie refuses to cry.  _ I’m not a little boy.  _ But it’s hard, because he’s going to be alone soon again, he’s sure of it. She knows him too well now, he showed her too much. And he’d been trying  _ so hard _ not to, he’d been doing so good. He only wanted to be good for her. 

Wants. 

_ I won’t do it again,  _ she said, and he hates himself because now she’ll never lie next to him again, or wake him up just so they can talk. Now she’ll tip-toe and avoid him and pity him, and sooner or later she’ll find a reason to move out, and he can’t hold it against her even as he wishes bitterly it weren’t inevitable. Of course she’ll leave. Who would stay? Only someone as crazy as him, Freddie thinks, except there isn’t anyone else like him, not in the whole world.

He presses his face into his pillow and pushes a hot, shuddering breath against the fabric, then sucks the air back in through his mouth.  _ Please don’t leave me,  _ he prays to her, over and over. And then, since it’s already done:  _ please come back. Come back to me, Florence, I love you. _

He does, he really does.  _ Fuck,  _ he thinks. He’s known her less two a years. He survived long enough without her. She’s only a woman, she’s only — Freddie gives up on that train of thought. He’ll never be able to reduce Florence to something that won’t hurt to lose. 

If only he hadn’t been dreaming when she came in. If only her voice hadn’t been so like his mother’s through the haze of sleep, the way Mother had sounded when she found him drunk or high in his bed where her boyfriend had left him. The way she’d instruct him to  _ get up, Frederick, you’re going to be late for school, and for God’s sake put some clothes on,  _ as if he’d poured his own drinks the night before, pulled down his own pants and left them off. As if she didn’t know. 

But his mother knew, of course she knew, and now Florence knows — well, not everything. But too much. She knows there’s something wrong with him, and if she stays she’ll only see more of it.

_ I should get up,  _ he thinks,  _ and go out and tell her to go away, just get out. She’ll be relieved. _

He can’t force himself to do it. He suspects it’s because he doesn’t really want to.

 

The next morning, Florence knocks lightly at his door. Freddie hesitates where he sits on the floor in front of his folding chess board, where he’s been sitting all night. She knocks again. He gets up and opens the door.

He sees with a pang that she’s all dressed and made up for work, long hair brushed and pinned back. He already misses lounging on her bed while she gets ready.

“I made you coffee,” Florence says.

He blinks at her.

“Decaf,” she continues, “because I know you’ve been up all night. You should get some sleep, darling, but set your alarm and come meet me for dinner at the club. There’s a man speaking there tonight who played Capablanca, and you ought to meet him. Six o’clock, so better set your alarm for four, alright?”

Freddie takes the coffee. “Okay,” he says.

Florence knows she got it right when he gives her a shy, uncertain smile. She kisses him on the cheek, gets her bag, and leaves for work. As she locks up her she’s confident they’re going to be alright after all. 

Behind the door, Freddie hopes they might be.


	6. loverboy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for a brief, non-explicit allusion to child sexual abuse.

_ May, 1974 _

 

They’re both drunk the night he tries to fuck her. Sleep with her, make love — whatever you wanna call it. (Afterwards, he won’t want to call it anything; he’ll want to forget it. He won’t be able to.)

They’re drunk, just got home from a nightclub an hour ago because it’s been a good few weeks for him. He’s been feeling so much better since he stopped taking his pills: no panics, no noises too loud, his mind works quickly again. So quick, he’s had so many good ideas  — he’s devising a whole new opening transposition, one that can’t be beat, he feels unstoppable.

And when things are good like that he likes to go dancing. Whether things are good or bad he can’t stop moving, fidgeting, unless he’s at the board and then he’s perfectly still. But moving when things are good? It’s a rush almost as great as a good game of chess. Well, not almost: nothing can really compare to that. But it’s a rush, and he’s not a bad dancer. Not as good as Florence, but not bad.

So they’d stayed out past one and now they’re back, and they’re drinking a little more because it’s been a wonderful night and they don’t want it to end. They’re standing in the doorway between the living room and the kitchen, glasses in hand. Tanqueray for her, Jack Daniels for him. He’s got his shoulders leaned against the doorway between the living room and the kitchen and he’s gesturing wildly, no mind that he might be spilling a little, because he’s making her laugh with his impression of the nightclub singer, and as he does he realizes he was wrong:  _ that’s  _ the next best rush after chess, not dancing. Making her laugh. 

And then he thinks, in an abstract sort of way, that she really is beautiful. Anyone could see it. And he knows he loves her. He should want to kiss her. It’s a good idea. 

So he does, and when she kisses him back he drops his glass. 

“ _ Fuck, _ ” he swears, “wait, don’t move” — Florence is in her bare feet and there are shards all around them. After a moment of deliberation, he wraps his arms around her waist and picks her up. She shrieks out a laugh as he hobbles them into the dark living room, her feet only a few inches off the floor because he’s barely taller than her even when she’s not in heels. She laughs harder when he dumps her unceremoniously onto the couch, but when he lowers himself over her she quiets.

“Freddie,” she says, and her face is too serious. She cups his cheek in her palm. “Darling, are you quite sure you want — ?”

He kisses her again. Of course he wants this, how could he not? She’s beautiful, and he loves her, and this is what men do with beautiful women they love. 

Florence sighs against his lips. A kind of sigh he’s never heard from her before: not exasperated or tired, not wistful. Pleased, and something more. A  _ sexy _ sigh, he thinks somewhere in the back of his mind, except he doesn’t find it sexy. He doesn’t find it sexy either when she hooks her leg over his, pulling him closer until their crotches are rubbing against each other, and his tongue is heavy in her slick mouth, and she smells of sweat and liquor and perfume and it’s too much, he’s gonna be sick, shit,  _ shit.  _ He jerks away and then he’s on the other end of the couch, his knees against his chest. Panting.

Slowly, Florence sits up. She swings her feet to the floor, smooths out her skirt, straightens her blouse. Only then does she look at him. 

“Freddie.” She pushes her hair from her face with the heel of her palm. His heart aches at the gesture, and he looks away.

“I — I’m sorry,” he mutters. “Fuck.” From where he’s sitting he can see the brightly lit kitchen floor where the broken glass still glints. “It’s like kissing your sister.”

She’s quiet, and for a long moment he thinks she’s going to stand up and leave. Then, before she even opens her mouth to speak, he realizes she’s only choosing her words very carefully. Never good when she has to do that.

“Have you ever been with a woman before?” she asks softly and he jerks his head around in shock to look at her.

“What the hell do you mean?” he splutters. “Of course I have!” It’s true. It’s not the whole truth, but she doesn’t know about how it was only twice and after the first time he had a panic attack and threw up, and after the second time he had a panic attack but didn’t throw up. 

He hadn’t loved those women, though. It was supposed to be different when you loved the woman.

“And did you like it?” Her voice is too gentle.

“They were better than  _ you _ , if that’s what you’re asking,” he snaps, and jumps to his feet. He doesn’t have to look at her to know she’s shut her eyes for a beat in order to gather her patience. He hates how fucking  _ patient  _ she can be. 

“And have you ever been with a man?”

He clenches his fists, unclenches, clenches, lets his nails bite into his palm.  _ Yes. Six of them. Seven, if you count my mother’s boyfriend and what he did even when I said no.  _ “That’s disgusting.” He’d panicked and thrown up after his first real time with a man, too. But never again after that. 

“They were better than me, weren’t they?” she asks. Her voice is less careful now, and more confident. “For you, I mean.”

Freddie doesn’t realize they’re an admission of guilt until the words are already out of his mouth: “Don’t be pathetic, Florence, you can’t be the best at  _ every _ thing.” 

And she  _ laughs.  _ He hates her for it, hates the sound of it, until he looks at her face and sees only relief, not mockery. 

“Oh, Freddie,” she smiles. He shouldn’t find it charming, the way she’s a little unsteady when she gets to her feet, but he does. They’re both  _ really _ fucking drunk. He’s dizzy. “I don’t mind.” She looks at him frankly, square-on like she always does. “It  _ was _ a little like kissing your brother, anyway.”

He lets out a shaky laugh.

She pats him on the shoulder as she walks past him and towards the stairs. “Just be safe, darling. Can’t be too careful with your company. You know how men like that are.” 

Then she’s disappeared into the dark.

His head is spinning from the whiskey and her words. He thinks he should go sweep up the glass so neither of them cuts their feet in the morning. Instead he falls back onto the couch. 

As Freddie fights his way into sleep, he thinks about how it must have felt for her when she was laying here. A man’s weight. His hands. His lips. In the back of his muddled mind he manages to be surprised that Florence was so  _ okay  _ with him being… the way he is. It doesn’t occur to him that she was drunk, too. That her judgment wasn’t what it normally would be. She’s a happy drunk, game for almost anything, not like her conservative, straight-backed, clear-eyed sober self. And nights like these, sometimes words don’t sink in until dawn. 

In the morning, she snaps at him for not cleaning up the glass. He tells her she should have done it and she points out it was  _ his  _ glass, that  _ he  _ dropped, and although he seethes at her as he sweeps it up, he’s relieved that they’re back to normal. Nothing has changed, and nothing needs to.

They don’t talk about the night before. 


End file.
